Story note:

Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so.

Please, be warned, this chapter includes explicite violence and abusive actions. If you cannot stomach this, I bid you to stop reading and turn back now. My intentions are not to exalt but rather show the strenght of resiliance and indurance of the affected immediately after and in coming chapters.

Things are heating up a bit In An Age Full Of Heroes and different characters and their story-arcs converge. Which that will lead to is up for your imagination for now, but know that you'll read about it soon.

So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review (or PM) with your opinion or should you have any questions. I want to know your thoughts and opinions!

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XIII

A Haze of Time

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The sky a dreary blanket of clouds overhead, the howling winds angled the harsh rain. Everything looked grey and washed out, fat droplets pelted trees and leaves and grass around him, creating an all-encompassing glossy sheen. Hood drawn up to cover his scarred features from the relentless downpour, Araris and his faithful mare, Kelpie, trudged along the muddy roadway deeper into the plains of the Bannorn. Nonetheless, he shivered in the biting cold as it seeped down to settle in his bones.

He'd simply saddled up and rode off, hoping to never return. Otherwise, sure as the approaching dawn, he would've slit open the arlessa's throat, just to bereave her of the capability of speech. In the end, it was better the way it went. There was nothing in Redcliffe for him to gain, other than false delusions wrapped in warm beds and food as well as gawking commoners. And whilst her snide words had cut deeply, Araris begrudgingly had to admit that they cut because more than a sliver of truth had resided in them.

Thence he wandered again in absence of a certain goal or destination, stumbling about as lost as a trapped soul venturing the dreamscape of the Fade.

The road, littered with murky puddles wherein danced drops of water, turned right and promised civilisation ahead, foreseeable by a faint swaying light. A score of lanterns as it turned out, affixed above the entry of a small barn, adjacent to a squat two-storied stone building. Above the edifice's closed door swung a wooden sign, marking this establishment as The Dainty Bann, one of the countless roadside inns dotting the landscape throughout the Bannorn. Dismounting, his leathern riding boots squelching in the mud, Araris led Kelpie along the reigns inside the barn where already stood bound to a wooden pillar another horse. Out of a trough it idly munched apples.

The nobleman returned outside and walked to the inn's closed door, by now his boots were besmeared about half the height of his calf. Pressing his shoulder against the heavy oak door, he entered accompanied by a protesting squeak.

Merriment and laughter welcomed him, belching patrons deeply invested in conversational topics of drunkenness and worldly matters. A large hearth was kept going in the tavern's midst. Feeling numbed by the sudden shock of heat, he shook himself like a wet dog and strode up to the counter, still shivering. Araris gestured towards the innkeeper, a stocky woman of middle age, dishevelled hair loosely bound in a greying ponytail.

'Good eve, humble ser.'

Araris fiddled around his pouch and let a few coins jangle onto the bar. 'A brushing for my horse in the barn as well as food. And something of the same for myself.'

'Right away!' She gestured with a stubby hand, beaming a smile. 'Be seated, will be there with ya in a moment.'

Araris nodded his thanks. The woman turned and hollered for a boy, who then vanished back into the kitchen, following her instructions. Seated on a small table by the wall, he didn't wait long till the innkeeper waddled up to him, frothy tankard in hand and the reek of sweet ale pleasing his running nose.

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His brow and temples throbbed, hurting. Masons swung pickaxes and hammers inside his head, splintering stone with echoing ferocity. Time had blurred, mere moments into hours and hours into days. Hesitantly, Araris blinked open his eyes, his hand shielding them from a source of light as strong as if Andraste herself stood beside him in all her glorious radiance, illuminating this ingloriously stinking dump he called his cramped room. Turned out it was only the opened window.

Groaning, Araris half sat up and half slumped out of the bed with the grace of a recovering drunkard, his head spinning. Clutching his brow in pain, he stumbled towards one corner of the small room, where huddled together lay a heap of discarded dirty blankets not even the Darkspawn would consider using. If they'd have need for such things, which they likely don't. Suspiciously he lifted them up with one hand and the pungent smell of bile and vomit fiercely assaulted his nose, a sticky puddle underneath, remnants of unidentifiable food already dried.

Half-heartedly feeling disgusted with himself, Araris discarded the blanket and, finding his wooden pipe clumsily stuffed with Antivan weed he lit it, daring to approach the harsh brightness of the room's open window. Judging by the way the sun's rays already shone nearly horizontally it was already late noon or early dusk. The Cousland scion couldn't remember much of what happened in the haze of the last few days, neither the exact number of days, though by the near weightlessness of his pouch and the absence of jingling coins inside he'd been spending his time drinking. A lot of drinking. But, well, all this had, at least, one very evident upside: he didn't wake up early before dawn shivering with ghastly memories of wrenching pain wrenching his body. Finished smoking and his raw nerves soothed a tiny bit, Araris gathered his belongings and went down into the inn.

By now a few travellers had gathered and filled the inn with hushed conversation and the usual sounds of a tavern, too loud nonetheless. A minstrel played silently in one corner on a slightly raised dais. The innkeeper yelled behind the bar, shouting orders into the kitchen for more food to be prepared and refreshments to be brought. Araris sat down at the same table he'd occupied when he arrived, however long ago that had been. Quickly a decent warm meal and a glass of hot wine appeared before him, the chubby innkeeper looking at him with something like concern in her eyes.

'Just be careful, lad. Will ya.' With that said, she waddled off again behind the counter, to manage her surprisingly large staff of serving maids and cooks. Puzzled, Araris looked after her.

At uproarious laughter and the rustle of chainmail his head swivelled around, carefully slow to be spared of another flare of pain. A gathering of eight armed men occupied the length of two tables put together. Alert, his senses sharpened, Araris' eyes quickly darted to where his scabbarded longsword's grip rested against the table's edge. He couldn't detect any heraldry emblazoned on the men's armaments, though they were too fine of quality for mere bandits or thugs. So either soldiers or deserters, which only left the question of where their current or former loyalty lied. Satisfied for now, Araris dined, watching the drinking and roaring lot from the corner of his eyes, the dull ache in his head smothered by his alert senses.

About the same time as he'd ate up the cajoling music filling the tavern gently subsided, the song ending like the release of a heavy sigh. Araris leaned back and sipped on the remnants of his spiced wine. Seeing as the armed men felt content to remain among themselves for now, Araris relaxed his eyes. At the creaking of wood opposite him he snapped them open, tense. Hand already curled around the grip of his longsword.

The minstrel watched him with large eyes, a slight upward tilt a trademark of her race, amusement sparkling inside them like embers. Colourful and delicate markings accented her brow and the area around her eyes. One of the Dalish, then. Once, at least. Araris had never heard of one of the woodland folk voluntarily venturing out of their forest realms to reside among shemlen.

She spoke the king's tongue well, albeit with an accent, 'So what's yours?'

'My what?' He cocked his head sideways.

'Your story, of course. Must be a rather dreary one.'

Araris needed a few heartbeats to respond. 'Do we know each other?'

'Sort of.' She clicked her tongue. 'Not that you'd remember, as blasted as you were last night. And the one before.'

Araris coughed, throat still sore from sleeping by an opened window and the liquids that'd flowed through it for however many nights. 'There's no story.'

'Bollocks.' She gestured with her hand, up and down, and Araris was once more reminded of his rustic looks. Walking dead really made for abysmal barbers. 'There's obviously a story, you do certainly look the part. And, I might add, you're unsuccessfully trying to drink yourself into a lasting coma. Always a hint, that.'

Boisterous, the armed men shouted for additional refreshments, their mailed fists thumping on the tables. Araris gazed at them over the dancing flames of the large hearth dividing the room.

'So?'

Irritation laced his voice. 'What do you want with my story?'

The elven minstrel laughed sweetly. 'It's what I make good coin with, that's why. I have to have an eye for people who can share an adventurous tale; otherwise I'd quickly die of hunger, wouldn't I?'

When he merely stared at her the woman pouted. 'Broody one, are we? Very well, how about you give me your name and I give you mine, stoic stranger?'

Seeing no immediate harm, he told her.

'Great,' she beamed. 'Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Araris the Stoic, I'm Anethayín, travelling minstrel of mediocre fame in these parts of Ferelden. What say you? Let's continue this lively conversation at a later point. But for now I've got to earn some extra coin and hopefully a warm meal. Now isn't that some fine thinking on my part?'

Without further ado, Anethayín left his table and with fiddle in hand strode back to the raised dais in the inn's corner. Soon after, merry music echoed through the tavern again. Letting his mind slip away, retreating like lapping waves from the shore Araris drifted off to the sounds, embraced by them. He thought of the past decade and his time in Antiva, brighter than the present, and all he experienced. The conversations he'd had, not all of them in the common tongue of man and not all of them with man, elf or dwarf. Some with beings older than mankind, maybe even time itself. When the haggard innkeeper stepped up to his table he actually felt a state of nigh relaxation. She made to put down another bottle of wine, but Araris declined with a wave of his hand.

She spared a glance to the corner where Anethayín played, smiling wanly. 'Brash thing, isn't she?'

'I'd say.' Araris smirked.

'She's good folk, the lass, she is. Just don't take everything she blabbers seriously.'

'You know her?'

'Sure do. Comes here from time to time, playing that lovely instrument of hers. Always welcome.'

'She's from among the Dalish?' He asked.

'Don't know. Never cared 'bout such things, only that she's got a good heart.'

Araris nodded thoughtfully. Then he realised that the clamour filling the tavern had subsided by quite a bit. The innkeeper had a queasy look on her face, her mouth a thin line, watching the armed men as they now sat huddled together, heads nearly touching and speaking in quiet whispers beyond anyone's hearing like conspirators. That is, until one of the younger man, carrying around him an air of authority, turned on his seat at the head of the table.

'Hey, knife-ear! How 'bout you come over here and sit with us!' He slurred in an unsteady voice.

Anethayín abruptly stopped playing and looked at him over the edge of her fiddle. 'I don't think so.' She resumed her play only to be interrupted by the rough scraping and subsequent falling of a chair. The young man swayed towards the dais until he stood directly before the elven woman. Anethayín perched on a low stool; he towered over her small seated frame, small even for an elf.

Anethayín arched a brow up at him. 'Didn't hear what I said?'

'O, I heard. Just didn't like what I heard,' he leered and made to grasp her chin. The elf deftly batted his outstretched arm aside, a bit too much vigour behind it. He stumbled back a step before righting himself, blood sloshing into his cheeks, teeth bared.

The backhanded slap of his mail-covered wrist split her lip and threw her off the stool. Anethayín landed hard, a pained grunt escaping her. Relentless, the soldier grabbed her neck, hoisting her to her feet and Araris saw the trickle of blood covering her mouth and chin. In response, the elven minstrel choked for air and clawed at her assaulter's arm, feet flailing over the dusty floor.

The distraught-looking innkeeper made an attempt to intervene, but the young man's companions had already left their seats, spreading around and staring down anyone, some with swords unsheathed. So the innkeeper found her way blocked and wisely held her tongue. Their young leader started to make his way towards the tavern's oaken door, dragging Anethayín behind him.

'Anyone comes out after us and we'll cut the lot of ya all down,' he threatened. One after another the thuggish men filed out of the room, sending sinister stares left and right, though some of the men seemed less eager at the happenings than others, mostly the older and more grizzled looking ones. The door slammed shut with an oppressive finality, the room conquered by an appalled silence.

Araris could feel the innkeeper's eyes burning hotly on him, pleading, yet he'd spied something of greater interest. The louts' absence permitted him a view of a round, wooden shield. The heraldry emblazoned on it made his heart stutter in cold anger, flooding his nerves. Silently, he rose and slung his scabbarded blade over his shoulder, having secured it with a few precise yanks. No reason not to be polite, Araris let the remnants of his coin pouch clink onto the table, every set of eyes suddenly fixated on him.

'For the meal and the room.' And any mess I'll make.

Sighing, he strode to the door and exited without another word or glance thrown back. Outside it was dark already. One of the armed men, barely a man if the patchy and soft bum fluff above his lips was any indication loitered around, ostensibly having been posted as a guard to turn around any patrons with heroic intentions. He skewed around at the creaking of the door, a bark ready to escape, shortsword already drawn.

Araris gestured and the soldier fell back with a broken nose, blood streaming down his face and onto his garments. He writhed in the dirt, whining softly. Araris turned and walked at a languid pace towards the barn, from wherein muffled cries and gruff voices could be heard. Under the arched entry, two grizzled men shuffled around awkwardly, alert nonetheless. They visibly tried to ignore the noises from within. Probably saw their fair share of the senseless violence and atrocities committed during times of war and strife to not partake, anymore, at least. At the nearing of his soft footsteps the pair swivelled round, their hands snapped to the handles of their sheathed weapons.

'Stop there.' The one nearest to Araris held up his palm. 'Nothin' you can do, fellow, trust me.' His voice sounded despondent, not at ease with himself, further muffled by his dense beard.

'You've a man down, choking on his blood.' Araris dismissively pointed a thumb over his shoulder, authority ringing like the clash of iron in his speech. 'You'd better tend to him, soldiers.'

Their backs straightened on instinct and drill, though theur faces scowling sourly. When their gauging gazes wandered over him, spotting the silver brooch holding together his travelling cloak at the collar, they sucked in their breath simultaneously, turning pallid. So they know, not only his family's crest, after all. The two veterans banged their fists against their chests, saluting. 'Yes, sir!' Then, they marched off in search of their wounded comrade back at the inn.

Creeping into the barn, Araris felt a bubbling pool of anger and disgust at seeing the laurels of Highever emblazoned on shields and leather of the soldiery. The elven woman's garments hung in tattered rags, torn off by inconsiderate and rough hands, bruises already forming on the pale flesh beneath. Even though she tossed and turned, clawed and bit at every turn like an angry steppe cat, Anethayín couldn't fend off four men on her own. Three of whom held her down at arms and chest, whilst the squad's young leader fiddled around with his breeches, kneeling between her struggling legs. Paying extra care to let the edge of his silverite blade grate against the insides of his scabbard, Araris caught the attention of the remainders of the squad of rebel soldiers.

Their heads snapped towards the sound in unison, bodies frozen first in surprise, then in shock. Before they all jumped up hastily, the elven minstrel forgotten on the floor, swords flashed out of sheaths. Meanwhile the squad sergeant tried to lace his pants up, stumbling about.

'Release her or die!' Araris used their disorganised and rattled demeanour. 'Simple as that, even you louts should understand that.'

'And who'd you be to decline us our fun?'

'I'm not declining you anything. I'm giving you an ultimatum. You'd be wise to accept.'

The sergeant snorted. 'Carve that idiot up.'

Two of the soldiers came at Araris, one of them a muscled, stocky fellow with arms like trunks hefting a massive shield and a heavy axe. Shaking his head, Araris cursed the youths' foolishness but exploited their stupidity of not being aware of their surroundings.

Nearly in striking distance, Araris slapped the flat of his blade against the skittish horse's backside next to him. It lashed out with its hind legs, striking the muscled soldier on the helmeted head. Thrown to the side, helm carved in, he flew right into his comrade. The rim of his wooden shield bashed into the man next to him, bending his neck at an awkward angle. Both thumped onto the ground, with bones broken, fatally wounded or most likely already dead.

Which left the squad sergeant and another soldier shocked, mouths opening and closing like gaping fish. Ignoring the last groans of pain from the soldiers before him, Araris strode forward, longsword idly at his side. The regular's eyes widened as he neared, his hand rose pointing he told his sergeant, 'Oi. Looky there, sergeant. One of them Old Guard fellows!' He blanched, indicating at his silver brooch, the emblem of Highever's élite infantry company as well as his family's heraldry.

Without hesitation, Araris stepped into striking distance and brought up his sword in a flash. Clinically, he sliced open the sergeant's throat, a state of bewilderment and fear written on his features. In gushes of blood he went down, gurgling. His last remaining comrade fell onto his back, trying to crawl out of reach until his back was against the wall. He mumbled and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, the stench of released human waste filled the room.

Araris halted before him. 'That's the thing with an ultimatum. You only get one chance.' Thrusting, he drove the tip of his blade through the eye and into the soldier's skull, killing him instantly.

Araris breathed out. What has the world come to? War; quite a simple answer! Where base desires and cruelty ran rampant and brother turned against brother.

One of the grizzled soldiers entered the barn, taking in the situation with a calmness only a veteran possessed. He nodded as if everything were in order. 'Never liked 'em anyway. No spine.' He looked up. 'Orders, sir?'

'Pack up and pay the innkeeper. You'll lead me back to the encampment; I've been gone for a long time.' The old soldier saluted and marched back out, leaving Araris alone with the violated elf.

Anethayín cowered in one corner, huddled in her torn rags, sniffling. She searched through her tattered garments with shaking hands. The elven minstrel fished a spindleweed twig out of her pockets and lit it. The numbing effect strengthened by burning, she let the addictive vapour flood her lungs. 'You go to the rebel's camp?'

Surprised at what resilience she possessed to not be a wrecked mess he only managed, 'Yes.'

She took another drag, her pupils dilating. 'I'll come with you.'

'What?' Araris frowned, gesturing at the corpses behind him. 'They just tried to rape you while the rest stood by and did nothing!'

'I'll sleep with a knife, then. Anyone comes too close and I chop off their manhood.' She shrugged, inhaling. 'Not the first time it happened.'

Araris found himself to be half tempted to ask if she meant the chopping off part with her last remark, but decided against it, believing himself to be better off none the wiser. Shedding off his woollen travelling cloak, Araris threw the garment around her slim shoulders. 'I'll ask the innkeeper for some fresh clothes.'

Anethayín nodded and brought the twig to her parting lips.

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Author's note:

Well, how did you like it? Stay tuned for the next chapter In An Age Full Of Heroes.